Allen Stone “Sleep” Live @ the Bing Lounge in Portland, Oregon
Exhausted, she sinks down onto her bed, pulling a half tucked-in blanket over her still, clothed body. Closing her eyes for the first time in too long, she feels calm sweep across her, the relaxed state that only comes when someone has been pushed too far for too long consuming her. Laying in the quiet, darkness of her tiny fortress, she hums silently, allowing the music inside of her to lull her to sleep, not caring that her shoes are still on, that her teeth have not been brushed, that she really ought to shower. As moments pass, her hums shift from the rhythm she carries within her, a sleepy, lyrically absent beat, into something more tangible. Realizing that her own body is coming to life, she shifts over from unconsciousness and takes a glimpse at reality. Music, stringy, tenor-heavy music, is drifting across the landscape and through her open window. The music begins to feel its way across her body, testing each vein, each organ for signs of life. As it travels, each new chord finds a place to call home and her humming shifts, her body begins to dance, viscerally at first, with cells keeping time with the melodic voice of the faceless singer now entering the scene, and then begins to manifest itself in her toes, one circling silently, another tapping against her leg. Moving slowly up her body, the music seeks to awaken her and she soon finds herself moving silently across her empty room, energized and renewed by words and instruments, finding something to hold onto in the world that she had almost fallen asleep on.
The streets smelled sweet and wet as they strolled together, arms linked casually, through the dark. Here and there, shadows moved in dimly lit houses, glowing amber under the moonlight, music drifting out through open windows. It was hot and the two lovers wore sweat-softened clothes that clung to their freshly tanned bodies. She stumbled every so often, and her tequila stained voice would murmur lines from the songs she had heard that day. She could not remember the names of the songs or the instruments accompanying them but the faces of the musicians bringing them to life was ingrained in her memory. Passion for their art, love for each other, and hatred for those forcing them to play in back alleys away from the visitors to their cities lined each of their faces. They were beautiful in their hatred and captivating in their passion.
Name: The Weatherman
Artist: David Beats Goliath
I don’t care what the weatherman said
He doesn’t know what’s in my head, well
Maybe I like the rain
What are YOU doing New Year’s Eve ?!
The Civil Wars cover of “Billie Jean” by Michael Jackson
This kid lived on my sister’s floor at school last year. Props to him.
See I remember we were driving, driving in your car
The speed so fast I felt like I was drunk
City lights lay out before us
And your arm felt nice wrapped ‘round my shoulder
And I had a feeling that I belonged
I had a feeling I could be someone, be someone, be someone
Silver Medallion ft Shwayze, “All I Ask”